A Disguise
by Mastergodspawn
Summary: When Jacob Bromley is sent by some mysterious force into the world of a game he has played only once (and that poorly), will he manage to get back home? And will he even survive that long? T for language and more possible hokey cokey. No shipping here, I'm afraid.
1. Chapter 1

Jacob eyed the keyboard with a hint of distaste. 'I've never played a game on a computer before,' he complained. 'Not without using a controller, anyway.' A brisk slap on his shoulder jolted him forwards and ilicited a growl of annoyance.  
'Suck it up, pansy, I haven't got a controller. C'mon, do you wanna play it or not?' Derek leaned over his shoulder, resting his elbows on the back of the swivel chair. He'd lured Jacob up to his room with the pretence of getting his assistance with some science homework, but he had a more devious ulterior motive...  
'Uh. Not really. You're forcing me to play this, remember?' Jacob replied, with a smirk.  
Okay. So not that devious.  
Derek frowned, rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of one hand. 'Well... yeah. But you wouldn't have agreed if you weren't interested, would you?'  
As much as he loathed to admit it, he was forced to concede that Derek had a point. Jacob was famously stubborn. But Derek had been talking about this _Team Fortress_ game solidly for three months, it had be at least kind of good.  
'Alright, but if I die within the first thirty seconds I'm not playing any more,' he grunted, positioning his fingers on the keyboard awkwardly as if it were completely alien technology. Derek beamed.  
'Atta boy! We'll start you off with Soldier first, he's good for first timers.'  
'So, offline practise mode, yeah?' Jacob hovered the cursor over the button, but Derek snorted and snatched the mouse from his hand.  
'Nah! Learn by doing, my friend!' he exclaimed, and started searching for a good server.

After a brief run down of the essential controls, and the agonising choice between RED and BLU (he chose RED), it took Jacob forty three seconds to die in his first ever game of _Team Fortress 2_. Derek had chosen for him to play Payload on Hoodoo and, although he wasn't doing the best job and went on to die five times in rapid succession, Jacob had to admit, it was kind of fun. Even if the first person perspective did throw him off a bit.  
'I always thought it'd be in third person,' he remarked as he was torn to pieces by the mini gun of **xX_Dark_Wolf_56_Xx**.  
'Nah. I think its better first person, anyway.' Derek was still lounging on the back of the chair, spinning Jacob gently from side to side as they waited for him to respawn. 'Do you wanna try out a different class?'  
After much deliberation, they settled on Pyro, and Jacob found that running around setting people on fire with a big flame-thrower was an inordinate amount of fun. It didn't help with his problem of dying a lot, though. In fact, it made it worse.  
'So, Pyro's not your style. How about a support class? Go for Medic.'  
As a Medic, Jacob managed to survive for a whole six minutes. Healing people was also hugely satisfying, dashing back and forth across the battlefield as he was called and even getting some thank you's and high five's in return. He was running to another player requesting assistance when, very suddenly, he found himself to be dead.  
'What?!' he shrieked, throwing his hands up. 'There wasn't even anyone around, how am I dead?!'  
Derek tapped the screen meaningfully. 'You got yourself backstabbed there, boyo.' Indeed, the screen showed an image of a very smug looking BLU Spy running from the scene of the crime.  
'Bloody Spies, that's bullshit!' he growled, pawing for his phone as it buzzed in his pocket. He read the text with a groan. 'Mum wants me back, guess I gotta be off.' He pushed with his feet and spun the chair round forcefully, sending Derek stumbling onto his bed.  
'Are you gonna download _Team Fortress_ when you get home?' he enquired, his voice muffled on account of his face being buried in his duvet.  
'Yeah, but I won't be able to play it tonight, I've got coursework to do. And I guess not tomorrow either, seen as I'll be here...' Derek scrambled upright and grinned at his friend.  
'So we're still on for the sleepover, yeah?' Jacob grimaced.  
'Yeah, but don't call it that, it makes us sound like ten year old girls,' said the 18 year old boy. Derek paused for a moment.  
'We're still on for... the... overnight hang out?'  
'That'll do.'  
'Cool.'  
The guys chattered excitedly all the way down the stairs, talking about everything of little consequence while Jacob laced up his shoes. The conversation come to a stop as he looked in the hall mirror, frowning and tugging at something under his shirt, glancing at the front door with something approaching nervousness.  
'Do you want me to walk home with you?' asked Derek, noting his friend's discomfort. Jacob shook his head mutely, earning himself another great clap on his shoulder. 'Well, stop being so worried about it, then! You look fine,' he added reassuringly.  
Jacob smiled and bid his friend goodbye, and Derek stood in the doorway watching him until he went out of sight. As soon as he did, Jacob's worry increased tenfold; this was the worst, most nerve-racking thing to him. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone, convinced that he wasn't passing, that someone would call him out, shout slurs at him from across the street, or worse, chase him down and beat the living crap out of him.  
He had only recently started hormone replacement therapy, so his features still had a feminine softness about them, not that they were overly feminine to begin with, and he hadn't yet noticed much muscle development. For now, he had to rely on his short-cropped hair and compression shirt to pass, and hope that his naturally slightly rugged features were enough in themselves.  
In truth, Jacob looked as masculine as Derek did, but that didn't mean he could see that.

Unsurprisingly, he made it home without being assaulted. The streets of Poole, Dorset, weren't exactly known for violent crime, or anything, for that matter. The beautiful beaches were far more famous, the streets serving as nothing more than ways to get to said beaches, and places to buy buckets and spades, ice cream, and that one swimsuit you forgot to pack.  
He yelled some greeting as he came through the door and dashed upstairs immediately to collapse onto his bed, kicking off his shoes and stretching his arms lazily over his head. He was so damn comfortable, he wanted nothing more than to lie there and go straight to sleep until tomorrow morning, so he could skip this whole boring part and go back to hanging out with his friend. But, alas, life rarely affords you such luxuries, and he had only a few minutes respite before heaving himself up and starting on his coursework.  
He had _Team Fortress 2_ downloading the whole time, trickling into his computer in the background as he worked, casting the occasional impatient glance at his monitor, As soon as it was finished he sprang up, reaching for his mouse eagerly. And stopped himself, looking guiltily at the unfinished coursework still spread over his bedroom floor. Such a painful dilemma.  
Finally he sighed and closed the game down, shutting off his computer for good measure. And turning it off at the plug. And taking out the fuse and hiding it in his parents' room. Just so he wasn't at all tempted. He spent the rest of the night in a malaise of boredom, itching to set more things on fire and try out all the classes he hadn't yet touched (offline this time, despite whatever Derek thought). He'd never had so much fun on a game he was so bad at. He was thinking so obsessively about it, he half expected to dream about it that night, but no.  
That night, he dreamt that he was being watched.

The next day he crawled out of bed at an acceptably late hour for a teenager, gazing longingly for his computer monitor. But not yet, he had to get ready and... ugh he wasn't going to be able to play until Sunday! Maybe he should just... nah.  
He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed his bedroom mirror, noting with some discomfort the soft curve of his hips, as well as the bra he'd taken to wearing as he slept. His compression shirt may be the safest way to bind, but man, it still did a number on his body, meaning he had to wear the bra just to be comfortable at night. He stretched, his spine cracking, pulled on a t-shirt and followed his nose downstairs and towards the smell of toast.  
'Morning, Jacob,' said his mum brightly, tousling his brown hair as he passed. He made an inhuman growling noise and batted her hands away, making a beeline for the kettle and moaning, 'Teeeaaaaaaaa...'  
'Ooh, charming,' she snickered. 'And just when I'd made you toast too.' Jacob swivelled on the spot, eyeing her suspiciously.  
'Toast?' She pulled her hand out from behind her back, revealing a plate of marmite toast, and used her free hand to waft the smell towards him. He lumbered after her like a zombie, arms outstretched, following her to the dining room where she placed it on the table. He threw himself into the chair and tore into the toast voraciously, drawing a giggle from his mother.  
'I'll go make you a cup of tea.' She ruffled his hair again as she left, but this time he didn't seem to notice, far too preoccupied with the task in hand. By the time she returned with a steaming mug, he had already finished the lot and was licking stray smears of marmite from his fingertips.  
'Thanks, mum,' he said gratefully, accepting the mug and taking a scalding sip. 'Where's dad?'  
'At work.'  
'What? But it's a Saturday!'  
'They offered him the extra shifts and he said yes,' she explained, shrugging her shoulders.  
'Mmmm, okay.' Jacob knew they needed the money. 'I guess I wont see him until tomorrow evening, then.' He downed the rest of his tea, gasping as the liquid seared his throat, and dashed upstairs to pack a bag. 'Thanks, mum!'

He threw a change of clothes, pyjamas, some games Derek had asked to borrow, a book he'd been meaning to give back for six months and, with some distaste, his sleeping bra, into a rucksack, got dressed in record time, barely pausing to comb his fingers through his hair, and charged off to brush his teeth. Within minutes he was downstairs, yanking on his boots and a hooded jacket, and checking his reflection quickly. It was incredible how much more at ease and confident he looked with a flat chest, as though the him of now and the him of two years ago were completely different people.  
Hell, they _were_ completely different people.  
'Bye, mum, I'm going to Derek's!' he yelled, receiving a vague noise of recognition from the back of the house in return. He grabbed his key, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and stepped out of the house, turning to lock the door behind him.

'Good Morning, Mr Bromley.'

There was a sound, the sound glass would make if you could tear it, and Jacob had only enough time to yelp in surprise at the dark silhouette looming over his shoulder when, with a sudden jerk, he was falling.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jacob first woke, it was still with that faint sensation of falling, weightless, through some dark void. Then another sensation hit, and that was pain. His back and ribs burned, like he'd been dropped from a substantial height, and the sudden onslaught made his breath catch and he coughed, rolling onto his side, eyes still shut tight, trying to remember what the hell had happened to him. Had he been hit by a car? It felt like he'd been hit by a car. And the ground was hard enough to be pavement, but something didn't feel quite right.  
And why the hell was it so hot?  
'He's wakin' up,' said a voice with a soft Texan accent (some kind pedestrian who had stopped to help him, no doubt), and he heard footsteps. The tip of a shoe dug into the soft flesh of his thigh, and he growled an unintelligible request to desist. Some not-so-kind pedestrian.  
'Stand up.' This voice was different, very different, smooth and French and devoid of the warmth of the first one. Who the hell was this guy, telling him to stand up? He'd just been hit by a car! Maybe it was the guy who hit him. He cracked his eyes open, forced to squint in the sunlight, which was suddenly much brighter than **GUN.**  
Jacob scrambled backwards, eyes flying wide. That was a gun, that guy had a gun, and it was pointing right at him.  
Oh God.  
Oh God oh God oh God oh _God_.  
'Please don't shoot me,' he said dumbly, still staring straight down the barrel. This is it, he was going to die. Here lies Jacob Bromley, 19, played video games then got shot by a crazy French dude who hit him with a car.  
'Do as I say and I won't 'ave to, monsieur,' came the reply. He sounded almost bored, as though he'd really rather be doing anything else right now and simply shooting Jacob where he lay would make his life a lot easier. 'Stand. Up.'  
Ignoring the protests of his body, he pushed himself upright immediately, raising his shaking hands up by his head. The gun gestured towards him and he flinched. 'Search 'im,' said the french voice, and a man he had previously not noticed (presumably because he was behind the gun and that was really his centre of attention right now) stepped up to him. He also had a gun, but while the first one was an elegant revolver, this was a shotgun. Jacob bit back a whimper as the man patted him down, very very aware of the fact that he was still holding that shotgun. He pulled his wallet and mobile phone out of his pocket and stepped around to hold the cell in front of Jacob's face.  
'What's this?' he asked, proving himself to be the owner of the first voice.  
'M-my phone.' The two men exchanged suspicious glances. The man behind the first gun spoke again.  
'Who are you and why are you 'ere?'  
'Um,' Jacob began, his eyes darting about for any possible escape routes. Apart from the buildings in front of him, everything around seemed to be flat, featureless desert, with nothing to duck behind in the event of incoming bullets  
'Please, feel free to run. Alzough I should probably tell you zhat our colleague is watching also.' He raised a hand in some sort of signal, and a tiny pinprick of blue light appeared on Jacob's chest before travelling leisurely up to what he presumed was his forehead. 'I think 'e would not be so 'appy to let you go, I am afraid.'  
_So many guns._ Three times the amount of guns Jacob had ever seen in real life. This was not his day. 'I ask you again; who are you, and why are you 'ere?'  
'M-m-my name is Jacob Bromley,' he blurted, 'An' I d-don't know why I'm here, I don't even know how I got here, please...' The Frenchman thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. Jacob attempted to shriek very quietly, but only managed the first part.  
'Some'ow, I don't quite believe you. Why are you 'ere? Do not make me ask a fourth time.'  
'I don't know, I don't know, I swear!' he more-or-less screamed. 'I-I was knocked out, I think I was hit by a car, and when I woke up I was here, please, you've gotta believe me!'  
'So,' interjected the voice which belonged to the first man, who was rifling through the contents of Jacob's wallet, 'You got hit by a car in England, an' somehow magically teleported all the way over here while unconscious?' he asked, inspecting the change he'd found. Jacob let go of a small amount of his terror for a moment and replaced it with confusion.  
'"All the way over here"? Where am I?'  
'Zhat is not important.' The gun was moving closer, then it was behind him, and his hands were seized and held behind his back. 'Engineer, you 'ave somezhing to tie 'is 'ands with?'  
'You betcha,' the first voice replied conversationally, as though the Frenchman had just asked for the time. He stowed the phone and wallet into a pocket of his overalls and **overalls**. He was wearing overalls. Now that the gun was behind him, Jacob's field of vision had widened enough to allow him to actually distinguish the appearance of the man in front. In addition to the overalls, he was wearing a blue shirt, hard hat, kneepads and boots. There were goggles hanging around his neck, just under a chin lightly peppered with stubble. Then he was behind him too, and his hands were being tied together.  
'What are you going to do with me?' he asked, ashamed of how quiet and scared his voice was. Having the gun out of his sight took the immediate edge off his terror, but only by a little.  
'We'll just have t'see about that now, boy,' growled the Texan (what was it the French guy had said? Engineer?). A hand grabbed his elbow roughly and steered him towards a door on the building before them. It was big, grey and imposing - the building, that is, not the door. The door was somewhat smaller and more like a regular door. Jacob's rucksack was sat beside it, half open and having obviously been searched.  
'We will be 'olding you until we know why you are 'ere, obviously.' Jacob turned his head a little to look up at the Frenchman. He was wearing a blue balaclava which obscured most of his face, bar the areas around his eyes and mouth, and a snazzy blue pinstriped suit. The hand holding him was gloved, and Jacob wondered how he could stand it in this weather. But then the Engineer was wearing a glove as well. Just one glove. Odd. 'Eef you do not wish to tell us ze truth, eet could get very unpleasant for you, mon ami.'  
Those last words barely registered with Jacob, as he suddenly realised the man in the suit looked horribly familiar. He was pretty sure he'd seen that figure somewhere... running, perhaps... away from the bleeding battered corpse of his Medic.  
'This-this is just a really weird dream, right?' The Spy stopped briefly, looking down at Jacob with an expression of contempt. Oh, yes, he definitely recognised the sneer behind that balaclava.  
'Let us see.' The cuban heel of a very fancy shoe slammed down on Jacob's toes. He yelped in agony, nearly falling right out of the Spy's grip. 'Does eet feel like a dream?'  
Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope. The stress of the situation and pain of his combined injuries all got a bit too much and Jacob vomited on his boots. The Spy sidestepped the splatter neatly with a noise of disgust. 'Well, at least _zhat_ is out of ze way.'  
'My toast...' moaned Jacob, half delirious. The two men practically had to drag him into the building, the Spy grabbing his bag as they went past. The door slammed ominously behind them.

Then opened again as the Engineer dumped a pair of vomit covered boots on the step. Then slammed shut again. Ominously.


	3. Chapter 3

It was cooler in here, though no more pleasant. Jacob shivered where he sat, a combination of nausea and the sudden temperature difference. His throat was still burning from the passage of bile and fighting the overwhelming urge to burst into tears, which he suspected would do absolutely nothing to change his situation other than make him look like a huge baby.  
The door opened, bringing in a rush of even colder air and the swell of distant voices, suddenly muted as the Spy closed it behind him. He barely glanced at the boy, instead leaning against the door frame and reaching into his inside pocket. Jacob flinched, watching his movements nervously, and he paused with a smirk.  
'No need to worry quite yet, monsieur.' He pulled out a silvery case and flicked it open, making a show of studying the contents. Eventually his fingers dipped in and came back out with a cigarette, and he tilted the case towards Jacob in a silent offer.  
He eyed the case warily. Cigarettes lined up on one side, a screen and some buttons of indeterminable purpose on the other. Jacob had never so much as touched a cigarette before, but... well, let's review his position, shall we?  
His hands were bound together and tied to the back of the chair he'd been forced into, his ankles tied to the legs. He was shut into a dank room with brick walls painted blue-grey, being driven to distraction by the insistent whirring of a fan vent somewhere behind him, face to face with a man he recognised as a character from a video game. He'd just been sick, was nursing several injuries, and was pretty sure he was about to die.  
To hell with it. Now or never, right?  
He nodded jerkily. The Spy put the cigarette to his lips, lighting it with a lighter which he seemed to produce from thin air and dismiss just as quickly, then came forward and crouched in front of Jacob. He selected another and held it up, allowing the boy to take it with his mouth, and lit it with the end of his own.

The moment he attempted to inhale, Jacob burst into a violent coughing fit, dropping the cigarette on his own foot. It burned him through his sock, adding screamed curses to his coughs as he tried to shake it off, and before long he was choking on air and trying really hard not to be sick again. The Spy gave a shout of unkind laughter, plucking the cigarette from his foot and standing, returning to his spot by the door.  
'You're doing my job for me, mon ami,' he chuckled, his cold grey eyes displaying none of his apparent mirth. Pinching it out, he returned Jacob's cigarette to his case before stowing it back in his pocket. 'Waste not, no?'  
He waited for Jacob to resume breathing before he spoke again. 'So; you are 'it by a car and just so happen to wake up outside our base? Is zhat correct?'  
Jacob nodded, his face bright red and eyes streaming. 'I th-think so. I mean,' he spluttered as the Spy's eyes narrowed, 'I can't really remember what happened before I was knocked out, but it feels like I was hit by a car.'  
'I see,' was the sober reply. 'Zhat seems reasonable enough.' Hope swelled like a balloon in Jacob's chest, only to be punctured as the Spy added; 'Oh, except for zhe part where you crossed zhe Atlantic ocean while unconscious. A very impressive feat. Tell me, what _really_ 'appened?'  
'That is what happened!' he wailed, stamping his feet like a toddler. As much as he could stamp them, at any rate. 'I don't know how I got here, I can't remember! I don't know why someone would do this to me!'  
'"someone"?' said the Spy sharply. 'What someone?' Jacob stilled; why _did_ he say someone? He racked his brains for any scrap of a hint of a shadow of a detail of the events preceding this madness.  
'There was... there was a man. Or not a man, a person, I don't know,' he said slowly, relaying the information as it trickled into his mildly concussed brain. 'I think they were watching me when I was sleeping last night.' After all, if this isn't a dream, perhaps that sense of being watched wasn't either.  
'Zhis is troubling, eef true. Anyzhing else?'  
'I don't... yes! Yes.' It came flooding back to him with sudden clarity. 'They were waiting for me when I left the house, some guy, standing right behind me and- and- and then I was falling... I guess I wasn't hit by a car,' he added sheepishly.  
The Spy strode towards him suddenly, his hand raised in the threat of a slap. Jacob shrieked, doing his best to dodge but only succeeding in tipping his chair over and landing very heavily on his back. Seeming satisfied by his reaction, the Spy smiled grimly, tapping some ash onto the floor. 'Is zhat all, monsieur?'  
'I think I broke my hands!'  
'Quelle honte.' He put his foot on the seat of Jacob's chair and heaved him back upright. 'You sit tight zhere, and I shall see what is to be done with you.' He breezed out of the room, locking the door behind him with a sharp click.  
Jacob attempted to think past the searing pain in his hands. He seemed to believe him, right? It was so hard to tell, with the mask and the fact that what he could see of his face barely moved.  
Well, he hadn't been shot or stabbed in the back at least...  
The 'He Is A Character From A Video Game' problem came out from the back of his brain and niggled at him. Now he thought about it, he was pretty sure he recognised that Engineer fellow too, if only as a face glimpsed briefly on the battlefield or the class select screen. And wasn't there a Sniper, too? He pushed it away for later thought, attempting to convince himself that it was either a horribly vivid dream, or an unbelievably elaborate prank.  
The Atlantic ocean, that meant he was in, uh, America, right? Or was that the Pacific? He'd never paid much attention in geography at High School, though he was fervently regretting that now. Well, there was a guy from Texas, and to get to France you only had to cross the Channel, so he settled on America for now.  
Ow. He was hurting all over, especially his hands, but _especially_ his right foot. He looked down and yes, sure enough, there was a circular burn mark in his khaki sock and a charming red welt on the skin beneath it. His head and back and ribs hurt from falling to - wherever he was, his throat stung from being sick and trying to smoke, his leg was sore from being kicked, he was pretty sure his hands and some of his toes were broken, and, hm, what else?  
Oh yes. **EVERYTHING SUCKED.**

A lanky man in a grubby hat and aviators was waiting for Spy at the end of the hall. He looked up as he approached, attempting to read his colleague's inscrutable face. 'You got 'im ter talk yet?' he asked, gruff and to the point, as ever. Spy leant on the wall beside him, flicking away the stub of his cigarette and taking a moment to consider his answer.  
'Yes... and no.'  
'What the bloody 'ell is that supposed ter mean?' Scratch 'to the point'. Impatient.  
''E is not a threat to us, as far as I can tell. But 'e is 'iding somezhing. And zhere is somezhing else...' The other man grit his teeth as Spy reached into his pocket slowly and brought out the cigarette case. He took his time choosing a fresh smoke from the identical line up, with the exception of one which looked as though it had already been lit once, and proffered the case to his companion, who merely shook his head tersely. A smirk spread across his face as he lit the cigarette and took a leisurely drag. 'One would zhink sitting alone in zhose nests of yours for hours on end would teach you some patience, mon ami,' he commented dryly.  
'Well snipin's a damn sight easier than talkin' ter you, yer prissy little know-it-all. Don' change the subject.'  
'Ah, vous me blessez!' He clutched at his chest dramatically, then shook his head. ''E says zhat someone was watching 'im. Zhat someone sent 'im 'ere.'  
'You believe 'im?'  
'Oui. Which would mean we 'ave anozzer enemy on our tails.'  
'Fantastic,' muttered the Sniper. 'As if those bloody REDs weren't bad enough. I suppose it ain't the REDs?'  
'I would not zhink so. Zhis seems... somewhat outside their comfort zone.' Sniper tipped his hat back and ran a weary hand over what of his face he could without dislodging his glasses.  
'What do we do wif the boy now?' Spy paused again, tapping his cigarette against his bottom lip thoughtfully.  
'We cannot release 'im while we still do not know who is after 'im, or what zhis secret is 'e is 'iding. But, as 'e is no threat to us, I see no 'arm in letting 'im 'ave... _restricted_ access to zhe rest of our base.'  
'And you'll be keepin' an eye on 'im?'  
'Bien sûr. I am not so foolish as to let 'im wander about unsupervised. And eef 'e were to wander off, 'e could be killed, and we don't want zhat.'  
'Aww, I didn't know you cared, Spook,' Sniper sneered. This time it was Spy's turn to throw a dirty look.  
'I care about not 'avin zhe Administrator on my back, _again_. 'is death would only cause us more problems zhan 'e is worth.' Sniper chuckled, pleased at having aggravated him.  
'A'oight, then. You gonna tell 'im the good news, or should I?'  
'By all means.' He waved the Sniper in the direction of the cell and turned to go, only pausing to add, 'You and 'im should get along famously, seen as you are from the colonies, oui?'  
Sniper only grunted. If they weren't on the same team, that Spy would have a skull you could use as a colander.

* * *

**French translations:**

**Mon ami - My friend**

**Quelle honte - What a shame**

**Vous me blessez! - You wound me!**

**Bien sûr - Obviously**


	4. Chapter 4

The boy shrunk down in his chair as Sniper entered, fearfully avoiding his eyes. He looked so strikingly like a captive animal, beaten and broken and curled up in the corner of a cage, the bushman found himself torn between suspicion and guilt. Crikey, he really was just a kid... but that didn't mean he could be trusted.  
Despite that, he spread his hands apart, palms out, in a gesture of reassurance. 'Don't worry, I ain't gonna hurt yer.' His gruff voice was lowered in an attempt at comfort, although it settled somewhere more around the mark of threatening. He unsheathed his kukri and the boy flinched, giving a strangled whimper. He raised his hands again, looking somehow less reassuring with a knife the length of his forearm in one of them. 'Re-_lax_, mate, I'm jus' gonna cut yer free.'  
He perked up at that, struggling to sit upright with hope in his eyes. 'R-really?! You're letting me go?' Sniper moved behind him to cut the rope tying his hands, the boy twisting around to try and keep his eyes on him.  
'Not exactly. We can't rightly let yer go when we don' know who's after yer, can we? Nah, you're stuck with us for a while.'  
'Oh,' he said unhappily, pulling his newly liberated hands into his lap with a wince. Sniper snorted, moving to free his legs.  
'Don't be so glum about it, mate. We're not that bad.'  
'Uhm, not to be rude, or anythin', but your friends nearly killed me,' he mumbled.  
'...Point taken.' The boy waited until he'd tucked his kukri back into its holster before standing, leaning noticably on his left foot, and glanced him up and down.  
'Thanks.'  
'Don't mention it. What's yer name, kid?'  
'Jacob.'  
'Nice to meet yer, Jacob. Folks call me Sniper, so I guess y'can too.' He offered a handshake, but Jacob drew his hands into his chest.  
'S-sorry, but I think my hands're broken. And maybe my toes too.' He nodded towards his right foot, which Sniper noted also had what looked suspiciously like a cigarette burn on it, right through his sock. Seems like Spy was less than gentle during his interrogation.  
'A'oight, guess you should go see Medic, eh?' Jacob nodded gratefully, stumbling as Sniper clapped him companionably on the back. 'Sorry.' He held the door open and let the boy go first, half out of necessity, half a desire to keep him in his line of sight.

Jacob muttered an unintelligible word of gratitude and limped out of the door, trying his best to stand upright. His back protested, and his ribs soon joined the party, so he remained hunched, hands held close to his body, looking for all the world like a decrepit old man. He paused in the corridor, waiting for Sniper to lead the way, but instead a long fingered hand rest on his shoulder, steering him gently forwards. _Right_, thought Jacob, setting off at maximum shuffle. _They're not keeping me tied up, but they still don't trust me._  
'S-so,' he began, taking a stab at "conversational" but firmly stuck in "awkward with barely-suppressed terror". 'What happens to me now?' There was a weighty pause behind him, and three fingers tapped a rhythm against his shoulder as Sniper thought.  
'Well, we'll try t' scrounge yer up somewhere t' sleep while we get t' figurin' out who's after yer, an' you'll be allowed t' wander about - under supervision, o'course. Apart from tha'... like I said, you're stuck wif us for a while.' The hand on his shoulder tightened, pushing him left. Jacob obeyed, turning from a grimy, depressingly grey corridor into a grimy, depressingly grey corridor with suspicious stains on the walls. A strip light flickered ominously above a set of double doors further down, and suddenly he was trying to convince himself that actually, his hands felt fine, perfectly fine, he could bend his fingers and everyth- Ow.  
'All right.' He fell silent until they stopped at the doors, Sniper rapping one politely with his knuckles. 'So, uh, what's this Medic of yours like?' he asked, horribly certain that he already knew the answer. The hand tightened again, this time in sympathy.  
'He's... good at 'is job,' he replied cautiously. 'Can get a bit over-eager, mind, but I'll do me best t' keep 'im in check.' Jacob pulled a grim face.

The door swung inwards quite suddenly, and a man - yes, he definitely recognised this guy, God _damn it_ - cast Sniper a bored glance before his eyes found Jacob. A moment's surprise gave way to the kind of grin more commonly seen on a scaly thing with lots of teeth pretending to be an innocent log. 'How can I help, meine freunde?' he asked silkily. All Jacob seemed to hear was splashing water, snapping teeth and screams. He fought the urge to duck behind Sniper.  
'He's hurt,' replied Sniper bluntly. The Medic spread his arm out, bowing them into his operating theatre.  
It was, by far, the dirtiest, most disgusting, most... everything, operating theatre he'd ever seen. There were _birds_ in there. BIRDS. Not to mention the multitudes of sinister contraptions littered about. It was more like a torture chamber than anything else. This felt a worse and worse idea with every passing second.  
A nudge from behind brought Jacob out of his reverie and he shuffled in, eyes darting everywhere. The white doves on top of the bookshelf looked back at him curiously. One of them was covered in blood. He turned back, seeking reassurance from Sniper, just in time to see the Medic plant a finger in the centre of his chest. 'You can wait out zhere until we are done,' he commanded, previous friendliness seeming to have evaporated.  
_Snap snap._  
Jacob shook his head violently, his face a mask of mute horror, but Sniper wasn't looking in his direction. He drew himself up to his full height, just barely taller than the Medic, and snarled at him.  
'The hell I am!' he growled. 'Yer gonna heal 'im up, that's it, an' I'm comin' in t' make sure y'don' do no more!' To make his point, he shouldered past the doctor with deliberate force, spinning him around. The Medic grit his teeth, glaring daggers at Sniper's back, but clearly decided it wasn't worth the trouble to argue.  
'Fine.' He brushed himself down, straightening his waistcoat, and walked past them to a gurney covered in feathers. He cleared them with a swipe of his hand and patted it. 'Take a seat, junge.'  
Jacob glanced at Sniper, who merely nodded, and shuffled over to set himself down gingerly on the edge, arms cradled in his lap. The Medic adjusted his round glasses, inspecting him down his large nose. 'What seems to be zhe problem?' Over his shoulder, Sniper rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.  
'Uh...' Where did he start? 'I think I broke my hands. And my right toes. A-and I've got a burn on my right foot, too. And I hurt my back. And hit my head.'  
'Vell, goodness me, zhis must haf been quite a tumble you took! I assume zhat is what happened, nein?' Jacob considered nodding, but before he could, Sniper cut in.  
'Nah, our Spook was a bit rough wif 'im. Y'know, when he was interrogatin' 'im?' The German took a sudden step back, examining Jacob anew with narrowed eyes.  
'I see...' Without further ado he pulled at a machine affixed to the ceiling, guiding it over as it glided on pivots and joints. It seemed to be filled with an unidentifiable red liquid, and the open end of the nozzle pointed threateningly at Jacob. He flinched when the doctor patted him on the arm. 'Zhis shouldn't hurt a bit,' he said, sounding more disappointed than reassuring, and pulled back a lever on the top of the contraption.  
That familiar stream of red mist flowed from the nozzle, wrapping around Jacob's hands and filling them with searing tingles, like particularly painful pins and needles. It spread to the rest of his body as it worked, seeking out his other injuries and filling him with the same uncomfortable heat. He fidgeted in his seat, unable to stay still. The tingling had become almost unbearable when the machine was shut off, making the room seem even more drab than before without the wash of red light spilling over it.  
He flexed his fingers, cautiously at first, then rapidly as he realised the pain had vanished. The dull ache in his upper body was gone, as was the burn on his foot. He wriggled his toes and, yes, sure enough, they were fixed too.  
For a moment Jacob was overwhelmed with gratitude, but then he realised what had so annoyed Sniper. The Medic didn't need to ask any of those questions. He was just wasting their time.  
'Thank you,' he said begrudgingly, sliding off the gurney. The Medic only responded with a _hmmph_, pushing the machine back to its original spot.  
'Much obliged, Doc,' grinned Sniper as they walked back out into the hallway.

Sniper seemed happy to allow him to walk at his side, rather than in front of him, and they strolled down the hallways together as Jacob stared at his hands, marvelling at how easily they'd been healed. He occasionally felt a tug on his sleeve as the Australian turned a corner, leading them closer to the sounds of conversation and, occasionally, fighting, but otherwise they walked in silence for several long minutes, until;  
'Why did you tell him that? About the Spy interrogating me?' Jacob asked curiously. Sniper chuckled quietly.  
'I thought it'd get 'im t' stop muckin' yer abou'. An' didn' it just?'  
He had to concede that, but still... 'The Spy didn't do all that to me. Except my toes. I did the rest myself,' he admitted sheepishly. Sniper glanced at him and grunted.  
'Yer don' hafta redeem that Spook t' me, mate. He's foul as they come, he can't do much t' get lower in my estimation.'  
'Oh.' Jacob looked about himself. The corridors seemed to be getting wider, cleaner, more homely. Suspicious stains and mold patches were almost entirely replaced with scorch marks and dents exposing bare brick, somewhat _detracting_ from the homely feel. 'Where are we going?'  
'Well, if yer gonna be stayin' here a while, yer gonna hafta meet the rest 'f the team, ain't yer?' Sniper replied with a knowing smirk, pushing open a wide and very battered door, swelling the muted hum of voices into a roar.

* * *

**German Translations:**

**Junge - Boy**

**AN: Thanks for reading this far, fellas. Much obliged. **

**I figured I'd waylay a fear ya'll might have here, so; No, none of the team are going to fall in love with Jacob, and Jacob's straight so he's not going to fall for them, either.**

**Also, I'm trying to write a chapter a day of this, to keep my hand in and hopefully make writing a bit easier for me, so it should continue to be updated regularly.**

**See you tomorrow, when Jacob meet The Rest Of The Team. Fun times.**

**P.S. For the record, this is my first TF2 fic, if you hadn't guessed, so any constructive comments on the characters are much appreciated.**


	5. Chapter 5

'No way!' A cloud of playing cards flew into the air. 'There's no way I lost! The deck was rigged! Rematch!'  
'Aye, ye lost, laddie. Pay up.'  
'No, this is bullshit!' The young man pounded the table with a taped up fist, scattering empty drinks cans, bottles and poker chips to the ground. The older man sat across from him, the black Scot with an eyepatch, grinned in satisfaction. 'You dealt, it was you, you did somethin'!' He pointed an accusatory finger. Spy (who was banned from playing poker since the ill-fated Poker Night of '69) allowed a broad smile to creep across his face as he stopped making coffee and instead turned to watch, leaning back against the counter.  
'Aye, but who dealt, and won, e'ry other time, eh? Nae shame in cheatin' a cheater.'  
'Leetle Scout tasted own medicene,' chuckled the third player who, up until now, appeared to be asleep.  
'You wanna go, Fatty McChubster?' spat Leetle Scout venomously. The Russian frowned, standing and punching a huge fist into his other palm.  
'Da. Words are boring Heavy. Argue with fists, much better.' Scout had to stand on his chair to push his face within inches of Heavy's.  
'Fuckin' bring it. I'll take ya down, butterball!'  
**WHAM.**  
There was barely a flicker of movement but suddenly that huge fist was occupying the space Scout's midriff had been previously, and the young man was sailing through the air. He landed, winded and dazed, on the far seat of a ratty old sofa, which tipped over lengthways and trapped him underneath.  
The Scotsman burst into gales of tearful laughter, clutching the edge of the table like he would keel over any second. Heavy cracked his knuckles, nodding in satisfaction. Spy snorted gracelessly as he buried his face in one hand, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth.  
'I'll fuckin' get ya for that, ya fuckin'...' The rest of Scout's reply was lost to furious grumblings. The sofa started to move, shuffling slowly sideways like a bizarre crab as he worked to free himself. There was a muffled shout as the door opened and hit the sofa, and the team cracked up again as Sniper's confused face appeared around the door.

'Ah, for the love of...' Sniper shoved his shoulder into the door, pushing the furniture out of the way to muted complaints of 'Hey! Woah, woah, woah!'. Jacob peered around the doorway nervously as the room rang with laughter.  
And he thought Medic's operating theatre was messy...  
Well, it still was, but it didn't have the sheer _chaos_ of the room he was looking at now. What seemed to be an entire pack of playing cards was strewn about the floor, interspersed with cans and bottles, some of them lying in broken shards. The bare concrete of the floor was mottled with years' worth of stains and various debris, as were the walls, and chips of paint lay where they fell, broken off by a baseball thrown in boredom, or possibly a games night gone horribly wrong. The function of the room itself was indeterminable; on one hand, to the immediate left of the door was a counter top, sink, refrigerator, stove, and various cupboards. There was also an upended sofa lying in front, but Jacob suspected that wasn't a permanent fixture. Spy, sipping casually from a cup of coffee, had taken it upon himself to stand on the sofa, making it impossible for whoever was trapped under there to get free. He caught Jacob's eye and nodded indifferently.  
On the other hand, which came somewhat later than the first, there was a circular table further down the room covered in poker chips, which seemed to be the centre of the playing card explosion. There were also two men sat at it, one collapsed in helpless laughter, the other merely chuckling as if to keep him company. Again, Jacob chose to assume they were not a design feature. There was an open cupboard near them, containing extremely battered boardgames. One box was charred beyond all recognition (It actually belonged to Monopoly).  
On yet another hand, or possibly foot, as Jacob had run out of hands, at the very far end of the room was a floor to ceiling window and a large, square table strewn with important and official looking papers. The occasional blueprint was scattered amongst what looked like pages of notes and, he extrapolated from what little he knew of this place, attack movements. So; it was a kitchen/rec room/war room?  
Unbeknownst to him, Spy was watching closely. He followed Jacob's gaze. His eyes narrowed.  
'Who is leetle boy?' Jacob jumped when he realised he was the little boy in question. One of the men at the table, a huge guy with a shaved head and a limited grasp of the English language, had finally noticed his presence and was frowning fiercely at him. He chanced a wave but it didn't seem to make a difference.  
Spy stepped neatly down from his perch. 'Gentlemen, zhis is Jacob. 'E will be staying 'ere for a few days. You would do well to keep a close eye on 'im.'  
The other man at the table, who had finally gotten ahold of his mirth, wiped the tears from his single eye (Jacob had no idea people actually wore eyepatches) and studied Jacob with something approaching a straight face.  
'Stayin' with us eh? What'd ye do ta deserve tha', boy?' Jacob fiddled with the hem of his jacket compulsively, looking at the floor as a blush rose in his cheeks. _Everyone is staring at you, quick, say something, idiot!_  
'Long an' short of it is, we don' know.' Sniper was proving to be a constant source of relief as he, once again, cut in for him. He pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge, popped it open and took a swig. 'Someone's got it out for 'im, an' he's stayin' here until we know who.' Jacob looked at his hands. He was so nervous, they were shaking, and he was breaking out in a cold sweat. _Oh dear._  
'Aww, that's just great!' The man trapped under the sofa had finally managed to wriggle his way free and stormed over to stand in front of Jacob, the grim expression of a very bad mood on his face. 'Ya get yaself in trouble, so ya decide to dump it on us poor, hardworkin' mercenaries, eh?' He jabbed Jacob roughly in the shoulder on each of the last three words. He shuffled backwards, trying to ignore what the unpleasant American was saying and just focus on taking deep, even breaths. 'Hey! I'm talkin' to ya!'  
'All right, ease up, Scout,' grunted Sniper, looking at Jacob with a touch of concern. 'Yer okay there, boy?'

Jacob shook his head. His heart was racing, beating so fast it hurt, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He shook from head to toe. Oh, God, he needed to sit down.  
And so he did, dropping to the ground right there and hugging himself, gasping for breath like he'd run a marathon. He'd had panic attacks before, but this one was bad.  
He started counting breaths, in for two, out for two, but just couldn't focus. Everything was so... unreal. It was like he wasn't even him any more. Like he was watching himself from outside his body.  
Somebody was talking to him. He dragged his head up. Sniper and the younger man, Scout, were crouched in front of him. Their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears. The two other strange men were peering over their shoulders at him. A movement to his right caught his eye. Spy was stood a little way off, watching him with that curiously blank expression as he played with a cigarette. He held it loosely at one end as he tapped the other to his silvery case. He slid his gloved fingertips down, picked the cigarette up by the other end, let it swing around in his grasp and repeated the movement. Slowly. Measured. Like a metronome.  
Jacob watched the cigarette. He timed his breaths to its revolutions. Once, in. Twice, out. Once, in. Twice, out. Once, in. Twice, out. And again and again until the ringing died down, he came back to himself, he could _focus_.  
'-en, we can' help yer if y'don' tell us what's wrong, mate.'  
'-n't touch him, did I? Ya could all see, right? Didn't lay a _finger_ on him.'  
'-ear me, laddie? Nod or somethin' if ye can, aye?'  
'-is not so bad, leetle boy, is okay here.'  
Jacob shook his head. 'I'm fine, I'm fine, it's okay,' he said weakly, more to himself than anyone else. Spy walked past him out of the door, finally lighting his cigarette.  
'Ach, ye gave us a scare, laddie!' exclaimed the Scotsman.  
'Yeah, what the hell was that?' Scout demanded. Sniper offered Jacob a hand to get to his feet, which he gladly accepted.  
'S-sorry, sorry, it's just... just a panic attack. I-I get them sometimes. But I'm okay now,' he lied, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. His palms were so clammy he felt pretty bad for Sniper, who he noticed trying to surreptitiously wipe his hand on his trousers.  
'Leetle boy needs sandvitch,' said the Russian firmly, making a beeline for the refrigerator. Jacob stumbled over to the upturned sofa and sat heavily, flicking away a large spider clinging to the underside.  
'Yer sure you're okay?' Sniper stood in front of him, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Jacob tried to smile, but it was a weak effort and probably made him look even worse with his pale, sweaty skin.  
'Yeah, I'll be fine, I just need to... sit. For a while.' Sniper nodded, seeming to struggle with whatever he was trying to say.  
'Look, sorry about all this, mate,' he managed, his voice low. 'I guess this mus' be a lot t' take in, eh? I should've... eased yer in.'  
'No, it's okay, really. They... I just... they kind've come an' go, y'know? Like, they're not always caused by something. 'S not your fault.' Jacob was very much aware of the cause of this particular attack, but Sniper looked surprisingly guilty. He didn't have the heart to tell him that it was, at least partially, his fault.  
'Well... all roight, then.' He cleared his throat, casting about for something to do. 'I'll get yer a glass of water, shall I?'  
Jacob murmured a word of thanks and focused on his breathing again, in through his nose, out through his mouth, thinking idly about that cigarette.

* * *

**AN: I'm not terribly happy with this one, but I told myself I'd write a chapter a day and by gum, I did it.**

**It also didn't go quite the way I expected it to... Jacob's panic attack kind of came out of nowhere, and I was fully planning on introducing ****_everyone else_**** in this chapter. Ho hum. Stories don't always do what you tell them.**

**See you tomorrow.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Fair warning, I do use the C-word in this chapter. Just a heads up.**

* * *

'Well?' Spy recognised those rough tones well enough to know who was addressing him before he opened his eyes.  
'Well what?' he replied lazily, allowing a cloud of smoke to escape with his words.  
'The boy! Y'saw what happened in there, that seemed real enough. D' yer really still think he's a spy?' He tapped a little ash to the floor, eyeing Sniper through his improvised smoke screen.  
'Eet is not a possibility I wish to dismiss so quickly.' Sniper rolled his eyes, snorting, and when he levelled his gaze at Spy once more found himself nose to nose with a red reflection of himself. 'Y' think spies can't act that great, eh?' growled his own voice. He watched the RED Sniper raise the cigarette to his lips, cupping his elbow in the opposite hand as he leaned back against the wall and set his hips at an effeminate slant.  
'Cut that out, Spook, y'know that gives me the jeebies.' Spy grinned broadly behind his Sniper mask, and judging by his colleague's reaction the effect upon his assumed face was suitably unsettling.  
'You see my point, 'owever, oui?' he continued, abandoning the Sniper's voice but not his image.  
'Clearly.' Sniper made no effort to hide his distaste. 'But - I mean - He's just a bloody kid! An' he was shakin' an' sweatin', yer should've felt how clammy 'is hands were after.'  
'I'd rather not, thank you. And eet is possible to self induce a panic attack.' Spy let his disguise dissipate as he rubbed his chin absently. 'But 'e is growing comfortable. Complacent. 'E is revealing more of 'imself than 'e intends. We shall know what secrets 'e is 'iding before the night is out.' What Spy had mistaken for complacency in Jacob was in fact the very slight lessening of terror. But close enough.  
'Wait, if yer still think he's plannin' somethin', why did yer say it was okay t' let 'im go in the first place?'  
Spy took a moment to choose his words. 'I wished to see what 'e would do when given certain... opportunities.' Sniper's face twisted into a disgusted snarl.  
'Y'wanted to see if he killed of us, didn' yer?' With an airy shrug, Spy side-stepped smartly and started to pace a slow circle around Sniper, hoping the movement would be enough to stop his face from being punched. 'Yer bloody treacherous Spook! I bet you've been 'avin a righ' ol' laugh, ain't yer, waitin' for one've us t' be bloody murdered!'  
'Please, bushman, calm yourself. I 'ave been doing no such thing,' he assured him, in a light, casual tone which achieved the exact opposite of assurance. 'And do you really think zhat I would leave you two alone, unattended? You flatter yourself to think I 'ave such a high opinion of your combat skills, mon ami.'  
Sniper ground his teeth furiously. Any prolonged conversation with Spy was murder on his gums. 'Yer were followin' us? To Medic's lab?'  
'Of course. I followed you some of the way back, too, but you quickly bored me. So I went to make coffee instead. Zhat brings us up to now, I believe.'  
He left Sniper, with the possibility of his being murdered by a spy, so that he could make coffee.  
_Right._  
Spy saw the first hit coming and ducked, but the second caught him square in the gut, distracting him just enough for Sniper to jam a heel against his knee and send him sprawling. Before Spy could even catch his breath, Sniper was hauling him up by the front of his immaculately tailored shirt to land a particularly vicious blow on the hinge of his jaw. It broke with an audible, and very satisfying, **crunch**.  
He let the Spy crumple back to the floor, rubbing his sore knuckles with a poorly veiled expression of triumphant amusement. 'So, what'll we do wif the boy tonight? We can't watch 'im twen'y four seven,' he asked, as if his brief punching interlude had never happened.  
Spy glowered at him, pushing himself up on one elbow and running his fingertips along the underside of his jaw, wincing. It took him a moment, but eventually he mumbled, ''E - agh - 'e will 'ave the bedroom next to Demoman's. We can all keep an eye on 'im then. _Merde_...' He growled random snatches of French as he stood. The amount of vitriol being pumped into them meant they could only be insults or curses. Sniper was willing to bet they were both.  
'You boys been fightin' again?' Engineer's mild chiding preceded his arrival as he strolled down the corridor towards them, holding Jacob's black and grey backpack.  
'Yes. Yer find anythin' Truckie?'  
'Nothin' important. Some kinda... entertainment disks, holdin' on to 'em fer now. Keepin' his book, too.'  
'What's so suspicious 'bout 'is book?' asked Sniper, confused. Engineer shrugged.  
'It's not. I jus' fancied readin' it. Here; I ripped up the linin' an' everythin', it's clean. Where's the boy at now?' He handed the bag to Sniper, who jerked a thumb back at the door behind him.  
'Socialisin' wif the team. He had some kinda attack before, but apart from that it's goin' pretty well. Yer gonna introduce y'self proper?'  
Engineer tipped his helmet forward as he frowned, practically obscuring the thoughtful expression on his face. 'I guess it can' hurt, eh? If he ain't a spy, I'd rather he didn' know me as "That guy who pointed a shotgun at me", y'know?'  
'This is all very heartwarming, but if you gentlemen will excuse me, I 'ave to go see the Medic.' Sniper turned with an innocent look of surprise on his face.  
'Oh, Spy, you're still here? Best be careful wif 'im, I got 'im a bit riled earlier, might still be pissed.'  
'_Wonderful_,' Spy growled sardonically, turning on his dress-heels and clicking off irately down the hall.  
'What'd you do to the Spook?' asked Engineer, watching his retreating back with interest.  
'Broke 'is face. He was bein' a cunt.'

Jacob sat nursing the glass of water Sniper had given him morosely. The spider he'd previously dislodged from the bottom of the couch had returned and was perched companionably on his knee. The two watched each other. It was a pretty large spider, maybe the size of his hand if it spread its legs out more, black with speckles of grey on its body. Jacob never could understand why people were so scared of spiders, as he quite liked them. He was going to name this one Edgar. Solid name. Edgar stretched one of their front legs, waving it lazily in the air before returning it to its original  
position.  
Edgar scurried further up Jacob's leg as a shadow suddenly fell over him, hiding in a fold of his jacket. The big Russian guy was looming over him, holding a plate with a sandwich of indeterminable ingredient on it. 'Sandvitch for leetle Jacob,' he announced.  
'Th-thanks.' In truth, he wasn't terribly hungry, but he figured he'd better eat it to keep his blood sugar up. And also to avoid angering the man over three times his size. He accepted the plate and rest it on his lap. 'Uh - sorry, I didn't get your name.'  
'Is 'cause I did not tell you. I am Heavy.' Jacob almost expected one of those huge paws be stuck out to shake his hand, and was glad neither were.  
'Right. Thank you, Heavy.' Heavy grunted in acknowledgement, dusting crumbs off his body warmer.  
'If leetle Jacob is stay here, he will not annoy Heavy. Keep both arms that way.' He returned to his seat at the poker table, leaving Jacob to stare after him blankly.  
'He ain't kiddin' about that arm thing.' The youngest member of the team hopped up to squat next to Jacob on the overturned sofa, looking him over with interest.  
'Uh. Good to know. You're... Scott, right?' he ventured, trying to remember what Sniper had called him. He received a look of disdain for his efforts.  
'_Scout._ Seriously, though, I seen Heavy rip a guy's arms right. Off. With his_ bare hands_. Just 'cause he touched his gun. Pretty crazy, huh?'  
'Erm-'  
'Yeah, he's fuckin' weird about that gun. Its got its own bed in his house, right next to his. I seen the pictures. Calls it Sasha. I reckon they're married, or somethin'. Bet ya can do shit like that in Russia. Hey, you any good a runner?' he added suddenly, as if that was the natural progression of their conversation.  
'Not r-'  
'Just askin' 'cause if ya can keep up, ya can get my back in the next fight. No? Ah, never mind; I don't need the backup anyway. Pure force'a fuckin' destruction, me.' Jacob had given up waiting for an opportunity to reply or contribute to the conversation at all, instead starting on his sandwich and marvelling as Scout held a full conversation entirely by himself. 'Crackin' heads, takin' names, capturin' points an' stuff, ya name it, I can do it, an' fast. Faster than any'a these old farts, easy. All Snipes ever does is sit there an' wait for heads to walk past. I watched him for a bit once, it was fuckin' boring. I guess that Spy's pretty fast, but y'can't really tell, him sneakin' round all invisible an' stuff. Why'd he tell us to keep an eye on you for? Where you come from, anyway?'  
Jacob swallowed his bite of sandwich, waiting a couple of seconds to make sure he wasn't going to start talking again.  
'England. Somebody knocked me out and I woke up outside your door. Spy doesn't trust me, I think he thinks I'm a spy, too.' Scout surveyed him again, this time more critically, and made a dismissive noise.  
'You're way too little to be a spy. Unless that's a disguise.' He reached out suddenly and, before he could react, put his hand on Jacob's face and felt it like a blind man. 'Guess not. They do that too, not just go invisible, disguise like other people. It's fuckin' weird. Spies are just fuckin' weird.'  
_You're fucking weird_, thought Jacob, still processing the sudden violation of his personal space and staring at Scout like he was insane. He probably was, along with the rest of this place.  
'Y'all right, kid? Aww, you're not gonna wig out on me again, are ya?!' He hopped off the sofa and took a nervous step back, a cacophonous clicking accompanying his movements making it clear he was wearing either cleats or tap shoes. It was Jacob's turn to summon a look of disdain.  
'No. You just put your entire hand on my face. It was a bit weird.'  
'Oooh, get you, Mr. English boy! "I talk posh! Don't touch me, I'll cry!"' The impression was neither accurate nor flattering.  
And worse yet, it gave Scout a new thing to do for the best part of half an hour.

* * *

**AN: Wow. It's merely four days and five chapters into my 'write a chapter a day' promise, and I already dropped the ball for ****_two fucking days running_****. I am sorry. Also I will readily admit that this chapter is terrible, but I am very tired and just wanted to post something.**

**If I can be uncharacteristically serious and mushy for a moment, I want to thank those of you who have taken the time to read this train wreck of a fic, and even greater and far more heartfelt thanks to the people who have followed, favourited, and left some very kind reviews. Honest to god, I re-read the reviews I get for the best part of ten minutes, clutching my face in my hands and screaming incoherently because you guys are so nice. I've only been playing TF2 for a month, so I'm glad I can write something that you guys find acceptable.**

**See you next chapter.**

**P.S. You may have noticed that Spy's accent has changed a lot. I like this version much better, I'll update the previous chapters to it some other time.**


	7. Chapter 7

Jacob stifled a yawn with considerable difficulty, leaning back against the cabinets and letting his eyes drift half-shut. Being in consistent mortal danger for so long really took it out of you. A deep chuckle drew his attention, and he peered out sideways from under his eyelids at the culprit.  
'Gettin' sleepy there, lad?' The Scotsman was sat in such a way that he had to turn his head fully to see Jacob, as he was otherwise only presenting him with a fine view of his eyepatch. Feeling suddenly guilty at being so rude, Jacob shuffled himself to sit up straight, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.  
'Yeah, sorry, it's been, uh-' He paused to yawn once again. 'Been a weird day.'  
'Ooh, _Jeeves_!' screeched Scout, putting one hand to his forehead dramatically. 'Fetch my faintin' couch!' He leaned back, hanging off Heavy's chair, and leered at the younger boy. So, he still wasn't done with the impressions.  
'Would'ya cut tha' oot, ya bloody cretin? Puts me teeth on edge.' Ignoring the venomous look Scout shot his way, he turned in his seat, holding his cards close to keep the Russian from sneaking a look. 'Never did intr'duce meself, did I? I'm th' Demoman, laddie, an' tha's what ya can call me.'  
Jacob nodded his acknowledgement, brow crinkling as a thought occurred to him. 'Why do you all call each other by your jobs and not your names?' Scout shook his head at that, laughing derisively.  
'We are here to fight,' rumbled Heavy evenly, not looking up from his cards. 'Not to make friend.'  
'Yeah, friends're just nasty things that happen to come with it. Like herpes.'  
'Charmin'. But, aye, Heavy's right; We're here ta fight. It's not th' type've job ya want people ta know ya real name. Besides, we get on jus' fine withoot 'em.' Heavy selected a card and slid it into his hand. Jacob's frown persisted. _To fight?_ He'd played the game, but... that couldn't be all they did. Could it?  
'To fight? What do you guys do here?' The three mercenaries turned as one to give him a look of astonishment.  
'Bloody hell, lad, where ya been livin', ya ain't heard've th' Gravel Wars?' He ducked his head, reddening under their scrutiny. 'We're mercenaries, aye? We fight. It's what we do.'  
Biting his lip, Jacob decided to push his luck. If he had to stay here, he could at least learn as much about this situation as he possibly could. 'But... who are you fighting?'  
'Fuck me, do we hafta explain th' whole fuckin' thing to you?' Scout hopped down from Heavy's chair with a clatter and sauntered over to Jacob, appearing to be deep in thought. 'Alright, kid, look; we're BLU team, right?' He plucked at the front of his blue t-shirt for emphasis. An awkward pause made it clear that Scout expected some kind of response, so Jacob nodded swiftly. 'Well, we're gettin' paid to fight the RED team. Okay?' Jacob nodded once more, then there was another lengthy silence as he waited for further information which was, apparently, not forthcoming.  
'...That's it?'  
'Pretty much.' Jacob looked over at the other two men, begging for some clarification. Demoman caught his look and shrugged, picking a card off the deck, looking at it, and setting it aside in one smooth movement.  
'He's simplifyin' but, aye, tha's aboot th' long an' short've it. There were these twin brothers, y'see, an'... ach, tell ya what, ask Engineer aboot it, next ya see 'im. He loves explainin' shit like tha'. An' speak'a tha' devil!' he added triumphantly as at that moment the door swung open and in came the Texan, shortly followed by Sniper.  
Recognising the man as the figure behind a shotgun, Jacob scrambled to his feet, the return of his nerves meshing unpleasantly with sudden light-headedness from standing too quickly. The movement dislodged Edgar, curled up half-forgotten in a fold of his hoodie, and the spider retreated to the comforting darkness of a jacket pocket. Engineer nodded a greeting to the other mercs before turning a slightly apologetic smile on Jacob. 'All righ', boy?' A gloved hand was extended for him to shake, but he did no more than stare at it uneasily. Engineer sighed. 'We got off on th' wrong foot back there, I know. Bu' I wanna make amends. Sorry fer pointin' a gun at you.' Slowly, and with no small amount of hesitation, Jacob accepted the handshake.  
'It's all right, sir. I get why you did,' he mumbled, defaulting to his most polite mode of address. The Engineer seemed to give off an odd air of respectability, even as he chuckled softly and released Jacob's hand to clap him on the shoulder.  
'Less of the sir, boy. Just call me Engineer. Jacob, ain't it?' He nodded. 'Pleasure to meet you prop'ly, Jacob. Got your stuff here, too, if'n you wan' it.' He gestured to Sniper, who held up the rucksack. 'Had to search it, course, held on to a couple'a things. Jus' a precaution, you understand.' Jacob muttered a vague acknowledgement, taking his offered bag with relief and clutching it tight, glad to finally have something familiar to hold onto.

_His bra._

He froze as if he'd been splashed with ice water, a rigid smile yanking into place automatically as he stared at the bag in his hands with rapidly increasing horror. _Oh god, had he found it, what the hell did he think it was doing there, did he know, had he guessed, shit shit shit._ Throwing caution to the wind he tore the zip open and rummaged inside frantically, feeling for the familiar shape. His panic only grew when he didn't find it. His gaze flickered between the Engineer and his open bag. _Had he taken it was he going to use it against him why the fuck had he taken it shit fuck fuck fuck._ Engineer looked back, concerned but uncomprehending.  
'What's wrong?'  
'I-I-It's my, uh, m-my,' His mind worked frantically, trying to come up with something else to explain his panic which still sounded plausible. 'My... my girlfriend. I had a present for my girlfriend in there, and I can't find it.' Engineer frowned, tipping his hat back from his eyes.  
'Well, was it a book? Or one'a them disks?'  
'N-no, it was, uh... s-some clothes...'  
'Oh-_HO_!' Scout's eyes gleamed and he leaned forwards, a cheshire-style grin on his face. '"Some clothes", huh? A certain type'a clothes?' Jacob cringed at the assertion that he'd bought fictional lingerie for his fictional girlfriend, only lending credence to the theory. Engineer clicked his tongue disapprovingly, a hint of a blush rising in his face.  
'Well, I didn' find nothin' like that in there, but Spy searched it 'fore I did. Wouldn't put it past 'im to take somethin'.'  
_Spy?!_ He could have maybe slipped it past Engineer, explained it away as belonging to his fake girlfriend, but if Spy had it... he was done for. He'd figure it out.  
Jacob threw himself down on the upturned sofa once again, plopped his bag on the floor between his knees, and performed another desperate search, trying to ignore the fact that Scout was perched beside him trying to see if he actually had bought lingerie. His hand slipped inside his pyjama top... and there it was. Twisted and bunched up, the hooks snagged on the fabric of the top. He could't have hid it better if he'd tried.  
Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked up and smiled faintly. 'Found it,' he said in a weak sing-song voice, then zipped the bag shut and clutched it tight to his chest, in case Scout took it upon himself to conduct his own search.  
Scout whined a disappointed "Awwwww!" and hopped down dejectedly, trudging back to spectate on Heavy and Demoman's game of rummy, which hadn't paused for Jacob's miniature crisis. It was then Jacob realised that he wasn't the only merc who'd taken such an interest. Sniper was watching him closely, as he had been since he'd handed over the bag. He met Jacob's gaze, anger and mistrust plain on his face despite the large, heavily tinted aviators.  
'Yer best show the boy t' 'is room, Engineer,' he growled, looking away from Jacob to stare angrily at a point some two feet to the right of the Engineer's head. 'He mus' be beat.' He strode to the fridge and wrenched it open, staring at the contents with unfocused eyes.  
'Uh... righ', righ'.' Engineer glanced at him with confusion before gesturing for Jacob to follow. 'C'mon, we'll have to get the beddin' first, the room ain't been used in a while.'  
'Okay... I'll, uh, see you all tomorrow. I guess.' There was a general noise along the lines of a goodbye from the poker table. Sniper didn't so much as grunt, or acknowledge his having spoken at all, though his grip on the fridge door tightened noticeably. Jacob cast him one last, worried look, and turned to follow Engineer out into the hall.

As soon as their footsteps had receded into silence, Sniper slammed the fridge shut, his head snapping up as he barked, 'He's a fuckin' spy!'  
The Poker Party (or rather, what was formerly the pleasingly alliterative Poker Party, but was now the somewhat underwhelming Rummy Party) looked up, raising their eyebrows in unison. The marksman was livid, his fists clenched painfully as he kicked out at the fridge. '"A present fer 'is girlfriend" my foot! He's slipped somethin' by Truckie, I know he has!'  
'Boy is too leetle to be spy,' asserted Heavy, a trace of unease in his voice.  
'Yeah, an' he weren't wearin' no disguise, I checked!'  
'An' he said Spy searched tha' bag first,' Demoman pointed out, in a tone which said that this should settle the matter.  
'Then he tricked Spy as well,' Sniper insisted curtly, with a little less conviction. 'He's got somethin' in that bag, intelligence or somethin', I know it.'  
'Or mebbe it _is_ just a sleazy prezzie fer his girlfriend, an' he don't want us ta see. C'mon, Sniper, it ain't that hard ta believe.'  
'Exactly!' Sniper grabbed the empty chair from their table and marched across the room, turning it to face out the window before plonking himself down. He was furious; Not only was Spy right, and he _hated_ it when Spy was right, but he'd been taken in by the boy's goddamn ruse as well! He should have pulled out his knife and gutted him where he sat. He braced one foot against the windowpane, tilting his chair back as he stared broodingly out over the sprawl of the BLU complex. After all this time, in this bloody war, with those bloody _Spies_, he should have known better than  
to take anybody at their word. At least Spy was still tailing him. He'd deal with the boy soon enough. Sniper's lips pulled back in a snarl, exposing his oversized canines.  
'I 'ope Spy slices 'is bloody face off.'

* * *

**AN: Hey, look, an ****_actual_**** seventh chapter this time!**

**I really wanted Jacob to meet the rest of the cast, but it just didn't work. I guess Pyro and Soldier will have to wait until tomorrow to meet the new guy.**

**Boy oh boy, Sniper is ****_pissed_****! Wow, I hope he doesn't do anything stupid...**

**Like I said in the sneaky sneak peek, the update schedule has gone a bit squiffy because I'm doing NaNoWriMo, but I already have a sizeable chunk of the next chapter written (I wrote it before I'd even started the first chapter) so that shouldn't take a horrendously long time. I'll leave you with this again, and, well... see you next chapter.**

* * *

... suddenly his face was rammed up against the dirty bricks. A hand grabbed his wrist, bending his left arm painfully behind his back and making him cry out. A sharp blade pressed to his throat ...

... His assailant twisted his arm further, and Jacob choked out a pained whine ...

... Jacob could do no more than stutter through his dry sobs. He was spun round and slammed back into the wall, a thumb pressing into his windpipe as the blade was placed against his neck again, the point pricking insistently into his skin ...

... Through his haze of fear, he managed to understand the very real implication that if he didn't say something quickly, he'd be dead ... The blade pressed a little harder ...


	8. Chapter 8

The pair walked in uncomfortable silence for a while, Jacob worrying over what had changed Sniper's attitude towards him so suddenly, Engineer wondering if he really had come so close to unearthing some raunchy underwear.  
'So, Jacob,' said the Engineer finally, casting about for a topic of conversation even as he spoke. 'How've you found your firs' day at th' base?'  
'It's been... okay,' he replied slowly, hugging his bag tighter as his thoughts strayed to home. A soft chuckle distracted him from spiralling into a homesick malaise.  
'C'mon, boy, honestly now.' Jacob paused, attempting to marshall his experiences into coherent thoughts.  
'All right then. Honestly; really fucking weird.' A self deprecating snort of amusement echoed along the passage. 'Bit of an understatement. I'd never seen a gun before today. Or had a near death experience.' Today had been a whole lot of new, and not particularly pleasant new, either.  
'That about sums up life here at BLU; guns an' brushes with death.' _And hats,_ he added silently. He made a left turn, wrenched open the door to the loosely-named linen closet (as it contained no actual linen and was not so much a closet as it was a damp notch in the wall with a door over it) and started rooting about in a pile of sheets for something that wasn't either covered in mildew or pockmarked with burns.  
'No offence, but today was the kind of day I could have gone without.' Jacob shifted his rucksack onto one shoulder to free his arms for the bedding. To his surprise, Engineer shut the closet door with his foot and set off, still holding the sheets. Such polite kindness from a shotgun-wielding mercenary was slightly jarring. 'Not that meeting you and your team mates hasn't been nice,' he added, a little too hastily for it to be genuine.  
The older man merely grunted, taking the next two rights and leading Jacob past rows of doors to the room at the very end. There was a small window at the end of the of the corridor, its frame sealed shut by multiple coats of paint. Through it, the sky was beginning to darken to a ruddy orange, the sparse clouds flecked with fire from the setting sun.  
_But it was still morning when I left the house. How long was I unconscious?_  
'Here y'are. Right past all of our rooms.' He jerked a thumb back at the doors lining either wall. The meaning behind this was clear: We'll see if you leave your room, boy.  
'Thanks.' Engineer nodded, dumping the scratchy bed clothes into Jacob's arms.  
'Bathroom's up yonder, first door on th' left, if'n yer need it. Have a good night.' With that he turned and headed back the way they'd come, leaving Jacob to open the door with great difficulty, on account of his hands being rather full.  
He managed it eventually and immediately slumped against the door as it shut, exhaling a long, shaky breath. Left only to the buzzing of his thoughts in the quiet room, Jacob finally noticed how exhausted he was. The very act of standing seemed to sap his body of energy from effort, leaving his limbs and eyelids heavy. It was hardly surprising; he'd had a big day.  
Straightening up slowly, he fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on to take a look around his new quarters. It didn't take him very long. There was a rickety metal bed frame in one corner with a thin, uninviting mattress on it, where he deposited his sheets in an untidy bundle. Two paces from the end of the bed brought him to a old, near collapsing wardrobe. He opened it out of curiosity. It contained only a nondescript overcoat and, oddly, a dog collar and leash. The name tag on the collar read Zane, but he didn't recall seeing any sign of a dog in the base. Shrugging it off as a mystery, he fished out his pyjamas and shut his bag of belongings in the wardrobe. Next to the head of the bed was a small chest of drawers. There was a lamp on top of them. And that was the entire contents of the room, bar the naked bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling, and the speckles of mold and mildew on the whitewashed brick walls. The room was maybe four paces wide from the door to the opposite wall, six paces lengthwise.  
Charming.  
With a sigh that resigned him to spending the night in this grimy hole, Jacob peeled off his jacket, hanging it by its hood on the corner of the wardrobe, and tugged his t-shirt off. Plopping it down on top of his sheets, he took a moment, as he often did, to inspect his torso.  
The binder was getting to easier to wear every day, and he found that he could wear it for longer and longer without undue discomfort. He ran his hand across his flat chest with satisfaction, lazily daydreaming of a time when he'd be able to look this way without the assistance of a compression shirt.  
An ominously familiar, static-y hiss disturbed his train of thought, and suddenly his face was rammed up against the dirty bricks. A gloved hand grabbed his wrist, bending his left arm painfully behind his back and making him cry out. A series of neat clicks preceded a thin, sharp blade being pressed to his throat.  
'I knew you were 'iding somezing from us, _mademoiselle_,' hissed a sibilant voice. The Spy twisted his arm further, and Jacob choked out a pained whine. 'Who are you working for?'  
Jacob could do no more than stutter through his dry sobs. He was spun round and slammed back into the wall, a thumb pressing into his windpipe as the blade was placed against his neck again, the point pricking insistently into his skin. Under his mask, Spy's face was contorted in a vicious snarl. 'I said, who are you working for?' he demanded. 'Those foutu REDs? Someone else? Answer me!'  
Through his haze of fear, he managed to understand the very real implication that if he didn't say something quickly, he'd be dead. 'N-no-one! I'm n-n-not w-working for anyone, I s-swear!' The blade pressed a little harder.  
'_Foutaise._ Then why are you in disguise?' Jacob took several uneven breaths in a futile attempt to calm himself.  
'It's n-n-not a disguise! P-please... please...' Unable to contain his tears, he started to cry, sniffling pathetically.  
After a long moment, too long for Jacob's taste, Spy withdrew his hands, frowning as he studied the youth. He had been trained to know when people were lying and, despite the evidence, Jacob didn't seem to be. Something clicked in his mind, and he made a soft noise of comprehension. 'What is your real name?' he asked as he folded his butterfly knife and stowed it away, his voice quiet and slightly warmer.  
Finding a modicum of potentially unwise courage, Jacob wiped his face on his forearm and sniffed, staring at the ground. 'Jacob _is_ my real name,' he insisted, the effect spoiled somewhat by his quavering voice. Spy fished his disguise kit from his inside pocket, flicked it open, and selected a cigarette.  
'My apologies. I mean to say, what did you used to be called?'  
'...N-Natalie.' Replacing his case, Spy brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it. His gaze had turned thoughtful and he merely watched the boy for a while, as though trying to figure out what he should do. Eventually, he reached back into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief, offering it to him silently.  
After a moments hesitation Jacob accepted it, looking up at him questioningly. Spy tapped two fingers to the side of his own neck. 'I was a little rough with you.' When dabbed to his neck, the white cloth came away stained with blood. He grimaced and held it to the cut to stop it bleeding. 'You put yourself in terrible danger, not telling me,' admonished Spy. 'I knew you were keeping somezing secret, so I assumed the worst. I could 'ave killed you.'  
'I believe it,' Jacob grumbled, his fear spilling over into anger. 'It's none of your business if I used to be a girl! And you could've just _asked_, like a normal person!' He met Spy's passive gaze and instantly regretted his little outburst. The Frenchman stared at him as though he were some curious specimen in a museum, the smoke curling from his slightly parted lips the only thing about him which moved.  
Suddenly he laughed. 'I suppose eet is not my business, no,' he conceded. 'Though I doubt asking "like a normal person" would 'ave been quite as effective.'  
Jacob frowned, confused by his mild tone. His entire demeanour had changed from hostile to almost friendly in a matter of moments. 'You're not, y'know... disgusted?'  
'Of course not. I 'ave travelled extensively, seen many ozer cultures. You are not the first _berdache_ I 'ave met.' He gestured with his cigarette as he spoke, outlining his words with faint trails of smoke.  
'I- what?'  
'Berdache, Two-Spirit, trans-sexed. You are not familiar with these terms? Hm. I doubt the rest of my team are, either. No, I won't tell zhem,' he added, forestalling Jacob's next question.  
'Thanks.' He nodded in acknowledgement.  
'Well, I shall not keep you up any longer. My 'andkerchief, s'il vous plaît.' Jacob patted it on his cut a couple of times, to make sure it was no longer bleeding, and handed it back. Spy sighed irritably at the size of the red stain marring its virginal white, muttered something unintelligible in French, and pushed it into his pocket. 'Bonne nuit, Jacob. I shall see you tomorrow, bright and early, no doubt.' He stepped out of the door, and Jacob listened as his footsteps faded before crumpling to the floor, taking deep, steadying breaths and willing his heart to stop pounding.

Spy shook his head as he walked, smirking in amusement at his own mistake. He had thought the boy a spy! How terribly insensé. The Sniper would surely derive much amusement from this... then again, perhaps Sniper didn't need to know. At least, not just yet.  
Despite the almost constant presence of a cigarette between his lips seeming evidence to the contrary, Spy never smoked in his room. It was far too small, and had no windows; he would have to leave his door open to keep from asphyxiating, and that would never do. He paused with his hand on the door handle as he finished his cigarette, leaning against the wall in his usual imitation of unruffled calm and effortless grace. It was more a force of habit than any wish to maintain a façade for the sake of mystery. One never knows who is watching, and you certainly don't want them to know what it is you're thinking, do you?  
His eyes roved lazily to his door as the sneaking feeling that something was amiss grew. He fixated on the handle, removing his hand slowly, under the pretence of using it to pinch out the tip of his cigarette before he ground it under his heel. There were any amount of small traps in and about Spy's room. Some of them caused you harm. Some merely let him know when you'd taken it upon yourself to go snooping. And _some_, aha, some let him know when they had been broken and very carefully repaired.  
With the same practised air of cold composure, Spy pulled an ornate revolver from his jacket's inside pocket. He flicked the chamber open, slipping bullets into it as if he were doing nothing more interesting than checking his watch. Putting his back to the wall, he tried the handle. Unlocked. Whoever it was wanted him to know they were there.  
Which meant it could only be one person.  
With a brittle sigh, he pocketed his gun and opened the door, greeted by the sight of a man in a fedora pulling open his overcoat.  
'Good evening, Spy.' The Frenchman closed the door behind him with a snap.  
'Administrator.'

* * *

**French translations:**

**foutu - fucking  
Foutaise - bullshit  
insensé - stupid, senseless**

**_PLEASE NOTE_****: 'berdache' is an outdated term for trans* individuals, and is considered offensive. Don't go about using it, please.**

* * *

**AN: Awww, shit son, two updates in as many days?! Its just like old times! Told you this one wouldn't take long. But don't hold your breath for Chapter 9 tomorrow.**

**This complication of Sniper being convinced Jacob is a spy was not planned at all. Oh dear. I really ****_am_**** worried he'll do something rash now.**

**I wasn't very happy with my Spy at first, but I don't know, I feel like I captured him a little better in this chapter. That last paragraph, from his point of view, is far closer to my usual writing style than the rest. Not that the rest is too much of a stretch for me. I just tend to write a little more dramatically, and fancier, if I'm not consciously aiming for a light-hearted tone.**

**Also I can't wait to write the Administrator. I love that woman something fierce.**

**See you next chapter.**


End file.
